


Lift Me Up

by misura



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Strictly Ballroom (1992)
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 19:32:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2823527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"How, exactly, does the introduction of new steps in some ... Australian dancing competition represent a threat to human civilization as we know it?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lift Me Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kinky_kneazle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinky_kneazle/gifts).



> this fic just sort of happened - it's a treat, by the way (or I hope it is, anyway. Ahem.)
> 
> I feel I should mention right now that Coulson has no lines in this fic and only a single, tiny scene - from your lj, I gathered you enjoy his character, but I've missed a _lot_ of AoS episodes and I just don't feel like I can properly write him.

"All right," Steve says, "let me be honest with you here for a moment," and Tony manfully resists the temptation to ask _You're not, usually?_ , settling instead for a manfully short:

"Please do." (Also, he'd leading here, and leading a guy like Captain America is no picnic, all right? It's hard work, requiring intense concentration and probably a couple more drinks than Tony's had today.)

"How, exactly, does the introduction of new steps in some ... Australian dancing competition represent a threat to human civilization as we know it?"

Tony gives the question his honest consideration in between a spin and a twirl, or possibly the other way around. "Honestly?"

Steve gives him a look that would absolutely ruin their rumba. Negative points, no doubt.

"I have absolutely no idea." Tony tries to look back at Steve as if he adores him. They're not actually doing a rumba right now, as far as he knows, but it never hurts to practice - unless, of course, your dancing partner's the kind of man who steps on other people's toes when he gets annoyed. "But hey, it was in a newspaper somewhere, so I'm sure it must be true."

"I'm from the forties," Steve says. "That doesn't mean I'm an idiot."

"Just keep working on that heel-ball-turn, champ."

 

It takes Natasha three hours from her arrival at Sydney to track down the residence of one Scott Hastings, Sworn Enemy of the Ballroom Dancing Way of Life.

To say she's less than impressed by the man himself would be to miss a perfect opportunity to use the word 'underwhelmed'.

"She's wonderful!" Shirley Hastings, Adoring Mother of the Hellspawn gushes. "Wonderful!"

Natasha smiles and comes up with the hundred-and-sixty-fourth way of killing everyone currently in this room, up to and including two of the three observers on various rooftops in the vicinity. (She's opted for a luscious gown, with plenty of frills and other material to cover up your basic assortment of weaponry.)

"Not bad." The man who imagines himself to be in charge here nods at Natasha as if he's doing her a favor. Natasha doesn't change her expression by so much as a fraction and starts working on scenario hundred-and-sixty-five. "Not bad at all. And you're available right away?"

Hastings Junior is right behind her. She could stab, shoot or poison him in less than two seconds.

"Sorry, no," she says, watching Mama Hastings's face fall. Noting how Scottie boy seems more relieved than anything else - there's already someone he wants to partner with, then. Someone his mother and everyone else here doesn't know about. Someone they wouldn't approve of, most likely.

("I really loved that dress you wore," Clint tells her over ice cream, fifteen minutes and zero dead bodies later. "Please tell me you kept it.")

("It's yours," Natasha tells him. She's ordered coffee herself. "Enjoy. Don't send me pictures.")

 

"A life lived in fear - that's a good one. I like that," Bruce says. "So let me tell you something, Miss Fran. There's only one thing in this world right now that I'm afraid of. Do you know what that is?"

She's touchingly innocent. "Losing?"

"Myself." Bruce considers the neighborhood, the family. The city. The stakes. "Don't let anyone take that away from you. The only thing you need to be afraid of in this life is you. Think about that, will you?"

She smiles at him a little sadly and a little angrily. "I think that's pretty easy for you to say."

"You're right," he tells her. "Doesn't mean I'm wrong."

 

Tony's first impression of Scott Hastings, Loki 2.0 Minus the Magic, Madness and Megalomania, is that he's a temperamental young man.

" _You're_ going to dance in the Pan Pacifics? _You_?"

It's probably a good thing Tony's been dealing with Steve for so long now. Granted, Steve's a bit light on the 'young' and Tony'd sooner call him 'boring' than 'temperamental' but aside from that, Scott's just like Steve, disdainful looks and tone of voice and all.

"What's the matter, champ? Afraid you can't handle the competition?" Steve's almost mastered the samba, and he's actually pretty strong on the English Waltz. Tony feels kind of proud about that.

Steve's costume's still a matter of manly disagreement, but then, it's good to have a loud, screaming argument every now and then. Hard on the doors and the furniture, but good for their relationship. Possibly.

"You're ... " Scott stares at Tony. Struck speechless by his daring and/or innate charm, maybe. Probably not, but Tony likes to be optimistic. It makes him feel entitled to bitch about stuff later, when he feels like it and has had a few drinks too many to remember why he shouldn't.

"We're still practicing," Steve says, by way of proving he likes to be optimistic, too, sometimes.

"They're in two days," Scott says. Clearly not being of the optimistic bend. "How much better do you think you're going to get in _two days_?"

"Two days' worth better," Steve says, which is absolutely a perfect and impossible to refute answer; Tony could have come up with it himself, except that he'd have emphasized the part where they're going to be mopping the dance floor with Scottie here a bit more.

"But thank you for not telling us we're going to fail because two guys aren't allowed to dance together," he says. "To which I could have replied that ha! shows what you know."

Scott gives him a very flat, extremely Steve-like look. "They're not. But if you want to go and dance there anyway, then just do it. I'm not the ballroom dancing police. I didn't make the stupid rules."

Tony recognizes a liberal thinking maker of revolutions when he sees one looking back at him from somewhere else than the mirror.

Steve clears his throat. "So uh, with that out of the way, maybe you could give us a few tips?"

Steve-like look meets the real thing, puppy-eye with hints of pitbull style. The real one wins. Of course.

"Fine," Scott says flatly. "Fine. I can spare you an hour or so."

 

"I like the rooftops," Douglas Hastings tells Clint Barton. "They're quiet. No people around. Nobody to look at you and judge you."

Clint considers. "I like rooftops because of the view," he offers. "Good vantage point."

"Do you samba?"

"Only when I'm in Budapest."

 

Five seconds into the Pan Pacific Grand Prix, Tony realizes he's either not drunk or not sober enough for this. Knowing that Pepper's sitting up somewhere, watching this ( _recording_ this, most likely) doesn't help - looking at Steve, smiling stiffly, wearing an absolutely _ridiculous_ costume helps even less.

"Hey," Steve says, when they start on the Viennese Waltz. "We can do this."

"I should have worn the suit," Tony says. "I can lift you when I'm wearing the suit." Steve's body is all muscle, not an ounce of superfluous fat. It doesn't mean he's a lightweight.

Steve grins at him. "You want a lift, I can do that."

"No." They've practiced the basics, the principles. Simple steps. "No, no, no. We haven't practiced that. We talked about this. We're not going to - "

"Smile," Steve says, and lifts him. It's a work of art, really, that lift. Wouldn't have been misplaced in a ballet or on a stage somewhere. _Is_ , of course, totally misplaced in a waltz.

Next time, Tony swears to himself, he's going to do whatever it takes to get Pepper to go with him. That, or they're sending in Natasha and Clint instead. Really, Tony's not sure why they haven't done that for this mission, too - he vaguely recalls a meeting about that very plan, and some idiot jumping up and saying no way, no how, leave it to Iron Man and Captain America.

 

"Was that a _lift_?" Clint asks. "During the _Viennese Waltz_?"

Natasha shrugs. "It's Stark. What did you expect?"

"It's Steve," Clint counters. "I expected a glimmer of common sense."

"Your mistake. Nice dress, by the way."

"Thank you. You look very nice, too, Nat."

 

"Brother. Relax."

"I will relax when you stop treading on my toes like a clumsy ox."

 

"You're here?" Bruce says, half-rising. "Does that mean - "

 

"Ladies and gentlemen," someone says, and Tony realizes that against all logic and reason and those many other things he generally doesn't pay a whole lot of attention to, Nick Fury is here. At the Pan Pacific Grand Prix. Rocking the mike, so to speak.

_Not_ rocking any kind of dancing costume, Tony's a little disappointed to notice. A man's got imagination, sure, but Tony's isn't quite up to picturing Nick Fury on the dance floor.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Fury repeats, and it's his 'shut up and pay attention' voice now, which means that people do, in fact, start shutting up and paying attention.

It's a kind of magic. (There can be only one.)

"Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Nick Fury. Some of you may know me as the leader of S.H.I.E.L.D. There were a couple of movies about that in your cinemas recently. However, that's not why I'm here." Fury slowly looks around the hall. Tony manages (barely) not to stick up his hand and wave.

"What I am here for is to tell you something. Something important. Something that maybe, you don't really want to hear. But that's not my problem."

Steve looks like he disagrees. Steve feels every single person's problem is everyone else's problem, too.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Fury says. "I'm here to tell you that there are some fucking new steps, and that y'all had better deal with it."


End file.
